


Sailing Away

by THE_ARTIST14



Category: Fine Line - Harry Styles (Album), Harry Styles - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Hurt Harry Styles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26967673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THE_ARTIST14/pseuds/THE_ARTIST14
Summary: Harry Styles, he’s lonely, extremely lonely. He has close friends and family with whom he can go too, but at the end of the night when he’s going to bed—there is no one there with him.He loves love, he couldn’t possibly exist without it. He has family, friends, and extremely supportive fans that adore and love him with every whim in their bodies, but yet with all of this love and support why can’t he be content with it? Why does he still feel that in a crowded room, he’s still alone?He’s allowed people to enter his life and see him for who he is–the person he’s grown to admire in the mirror, but the select few that have entered have left. They’ve seen him and they don’t like it after a while. Is it him? Is it them? Do they see this mourning for life other than his and see it as too much? Questions rage through his mind, all that don’t have easy answers.Harry’s determined to fill his life with more than wandering hands and drinks with carried out sober thoughts. He wants to fill the empty space between the silk white sheets and the mattress with a life that could bring some self-fulfilled happiness. Even if it’s just for a moment, he wants to feel better.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first HS fanfic ever, so I'm nervous about what I have in store for Harry here, but I hope you enjoy it!

The flip of the last page and the gentle push of the hardback book closing for the final time echoes in the slowly darkening room. The only other light in the room glows warmly as the night sky builds in the background through the white picture window. Instead of placing it on the small circular table by the white loveseat that he lays on, he gets up from his comfortable position and walks over to the growing wall of books he’s been collecting for several years now. He places the book among the other spines, letting it stand out for a moment before losing it among the others he’s read before this one.

My Policeman stands out in its red lettering against the ocean background of its cover. Backing up to look at it for a few more seconds, he visualizes himself in the story–which makes him feel more alone in the room than he already is. He pulls himself out of the thought and turns his attention to the stopped black vinyl on the turntable–ready to go back home behind the wooden doors of the cabinet that it lays on top of. It’s ready to be surrounded by others like it and to feel the safety of the organization and the sameness amongst the other vinyl. The slight static sound from the turntable lingers in the air as he removes the needle and returns it to its place, playing with the other sounds in the room and amplifying itself to feel like he’s carrying this static within himself because there is no one else in the house with him. Not even the fan spinning overhead drowns it out.

With the vinyl back in place, the turntable and speakers turned off, he patters to the lamp and turns the small knob between his fingers and shuts the light off–entering a new state of darkness. He stays in place for a second–just enough to gather himself off the metaphorical floor and make his feet move across the room to the halls that lead him to his empty bedroom. He’s not dreading going in there, he’s actually looking forward to a nice night of sleep, but he thinks about the coldness of the silk sheets that lay across his bare skin and thinks otherwise. He could make a drink to warm himself up, but he hates the idea of depending on a substance to feel something when there is no one there to help him feel it actually.

But he does it anyway.

The small bar that stays in the corner of the same room he’s still in calls out to him with the intoxicating color of a golden brown that it usually has in any light source, but right now it blends it with everything else in the room. So the burn that it could provide if he took a straight shot of everything it offers calls out to him instead.

‘It’s just a brief distraction’ he thinks as he takes a small crystal glass from nearby and pours himself a drink with nothing other than tiredness and hunger to sleep warm for a night. He gulps it down quick enough to consume a couple of more, slamming the glass back down and abandoning the room to walk down the hall to his room afterward. The thing is that he can still hear each pop and crack of his existence as he walks to his room. For some reason tonight it’s getting to him more than usual. Luckily it doesn’t have to last long if he could only make it to his room with a bit more pep.

Facing the light he left on earlier in his room, he walks in and shuts the door behind himself–more as a precaution these days–and prepares for a night’s sleep and a hopefully uneventful dreamscape. Already feeling the slight effects of the alcohol, he throws almost every piece of clothing off his body, abandoning them at every whim to get away faster.

The air is cool around every muscle on his body–sending goosebumps and pricks of reality throughout. He feels and traces them on the details of his black tattoos that line his body. It feels a bit intoxicating, but he lets himself feel and ache with every intention it has. The thin lines that curve his arms, chest, and stomach feel more real and solid than usual–something seems off-putting about them. He goes to the nearest mirror in his white marble bathroom and looks at himself. Standing there with nothing on but a slightly tight pair of black boxer briefs, he looks at himself and sees what everyone in the world sees.

He sees Harry Styles.

It’s the person he is and has become–it makes no sense when you look at it like that, but somehow it makes sense to him. He knows who he is intellectually, emotionally and he’s getting better at the physical part, but somehow he still feels like a stranger in his own body sometimes.

Maybe those drinks were a bad idea.

Can’t take it back now.

A quick flick of the light switch in his bathroom, he’s again in a low glow coming from the lamp he left on. He sits on his bed and lays his back down against the mattress, staring up at the smooth ceiling and feeling the silk sheets that peek out from under his white comforter tickle his body shamelessly. It sends a small reminder of the coldness that lays between them and that he’s the only source of warmth anywhere in the house that isn’t artificial.

It’s not painful.

It’s just lonely.

He hates it. These dwindling thoughts and spirals of nothingness. Why does his brain keep reminding him? He knows already. He was fine with it before. What’s changed now? He can stay up and contemplate what it all means for the hundredth night, but he knows those nights won’t get him anywhere but be left with wasted time and misunderstandings. He feels like he deserves a break from that.

He takes his underwear off and slips into bed. He reaches out and twists the knob to turn the lamp off. He’s entered that darkness again. He’s somewhat warm from the alcohol and the comforter, but the coldness from everything else against every curve and inch of his exposed skin burns with more intensity than with anything else going on.

He flips onto his side and grabs the neighboring pillow–cradling it in his arms to be a substitute for another being. It works for a few moments. He can even allow himself to feel whatever rumbles in his belly and to let it exist as it spreads throughout–it’s warm and somewhat inviting. His body is reacting naturally and it feels better to be human and to not be ashamed of whatever is happening, but it brings up the ghosts that linger within the shadows of his house. Every memory of another person and the warm touch on his skin that they inflicted and how heated and filled he felt on those days. How alive he was.

Oh, how he misses the feelings, but not the people all that much.

He places his attention back onto the pillow and holds it tighter against himself–he could maybe fool himself, but he won’t. He just holds on tighter and tighter until he releases himself into his dream world where the grip around the pillow is loose and soft, and his breathing is easy and steady.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight woke him up. It peaked through the curtains sometime past nine in the morning and curated the swirling dreams in his subconscious outward and formed a dull headache. It was enough to get him out of bed temporarily to retrieve some pain relief to reduce everything he was feeling. Dropping three white tablets into his palm, he swallows them down and takes a couple of messy handfuls of water from the sink to make the trip easier–letting the water run down his chin and onto his neck. The running water fills the amount of silence growing from the bedroom and into the bathroom, it’s not deafening, but it’s something other than static. 

Letting the sound fill the space around him for a bit longer, he places both hands on the marble counter and looks at himself in the mirror–almost experiencing deja-vu from last night. He doesn’t look tired or rested–he just looks. His facial hair is growing in. The freckles he had around his face have faded since the end of the summer–he doesn’t look quite as aged now. His hair, although growing, remains somewhat tidy and short, with a few flares of curls sprouting out from where he laid his head on the pillow. 

Running his hands through the water for a brief few seconds, he cups a small amount and dips his face closer to the sink to limit the amount of mess he could create from dowsing his face in the water. A couple of turns and he feels somewhat refreshed, but mainly a bit more awake. Running his hand under the water one last time, he gets a little bit more and runs his hand on his chest, around the nape of his neck and letting whatever else fall to his belly in small gleaming droplets that leave trails all along his torso–rubbing it in for the cooling effect he’s desperate for. A quick flick to turn off the faucet he returns to his bedroom and lays back down on top of his bed. The air from the AC kicks on in time and hits his skin from above. It’s borderline erotic as to how he’s feeling–it’s just so fucking good. 

Goosebumps form under the wet areas, sending small vibrations throughout the rest of his body to warm up the exposed areas of his already naked body. Nothing he’s ashamed of anymore. Hairs standing on end and prickling his hand as its rest on his belly and the other behind his head. No matter how much his body tries to warm these areas, the air keeps it intoxicatingly cool. 

Harry can almost visualize someone sitting above his hips–both of their bodies colliding in the heat but at the insistence that nothing can be actually done about it until they say so. They’re holding an ice cube against his chest to create a light sensation as they play and own his body.

Tracing over his swallows tattoos as a minor start, they place cold kisses within the trails as they move on subtly. Holding their attention on his chest, they rub the ice cube over his left nipple, letting it harden under the cold sensation as they flick over it with their thumb. Harry let out a soft shivered breath as the combination of cold and warmth from a few touches feels overwhelming even in the smallest quantities. Letting his body grow in goosebumps and excitement, they run the ice over his nipple once more for moisture before taking it into their own mouth and swirling their tongue around the sensitive area. Harry grasping for some air, letting his head roll back into the white sheets, he lets himself be devoured by this person. 

Repeating the slow deliberate process on his other nipple, Harry focuses on the sensation and letting the water melt into his skin. By the second his body is warming and pooling some of the water in the middle of his chest–creating a somewhat sticky sensation as the person runs their fingernails up and down his chest. Tracing lines on his skin to make it crawl. His hips buck up from under the person in an attempt to gain a response–but they pay no attention as they focus on the task at hand. 

He’s a little desperate. 

Replacing the ice cube from a small bowl nearby, the tip of the new ice sends a small shock wave through his sternum as they write cursive letters down to the bottom as they near the antennae of the butterfly tattoo. Harry can’t comprehend what it is they’re writing, he’s just focusing on keeping his cool as he slowly boils from underneath. 

The sharp edge of the ice cube digging into Harry’s skin glides slowly on the outline of his butterfly tattoo. With each new direction, they bend down and blow gently, encouraging the skin to grow under their control of Harry’s body. And he can’t help but blow out slow shallow breaths to keep up with the growing excitement raging through him. Some of the water melts towards the center of his stomach, pooling and settling under the careful watch of his partner. Taking a new small piece of ice between their slender fingers, they bring it near to the tip of their tongue before locking eyes with Harry and swirling their tongue around the now dull tip of the ice. Running their pink tongue back and forth over the cube as it drips down over their hand–threatening to fall further onto Harry’s stomach. As the ice melts in and around their mouth they bring down their lips to meet the pooled water on Harry’s stomach and lick up whatever is leftover. Small shock waves spiral throughout Harry’s body as the natural body heat radiating from him is counteracted from their icy tongue and lips. Dragging it slowly up and down to make Harry squirm under their watchful gaze as they keep their eye contact together. 

Harry doesn’t think he can keep it together much longer.

Once clean, they retrieve another piece of ice from the bowl nearby and trace it towards Harry’s belly button, but pick it up once near to let the contents drip into his navel. Letting each agonizing drip fill him until it slowly pours over. Again, his partner melts a smaller cube in their mouth before licking up their mess, savoring every inch of Harry. 

Picking up their mouth from his belly, they take one last piece of ice and drag it down lower to Harry’s center. Bypassing any untouched area and draw slow circles leading further into his pelvic region. As the ice melts and leaves an unkempt mess, the partner runs their fingers down from Harry’s belly to his hard length that’s pressed up against their stomach–taking him into their hands and Harry whimpering at the touch. Giving a few pumps, they lean forward and wrap their lips around his tip–staring up at him through their lashes to see Harry roll his head back and sharply groan in the satisfaction that can’t come any sooner. Swirling their tongue around his swollen head, tasting the saltiness from the pre-come. The coldness they sucked up from the ice cube before sends some shivers through Harry’s length–a jolt to the system. They swirl their tongue around his head before sinking their mouth deeper and capturing Harry at his base with some strokes from their other free hand. 

Harry’s at a loss for words, his mind can’t make up what it wants to think or say–it’s just muddled through pleasure and heat. He moves his hands from his partner’s thighs and to their bobbing head so he could thread his fingers through their hair as his chest heaves. The tension in Harry’s belly builds as his partner’s pace quickens. His hips buck up once more, but his partner moves their hand to grip his hip to keep him down–wanting full control. Keeping the rhythm in control with their mouth, lips wrapped around his length, their tongue flat against his velvet skin as it moves up and down drives Harry to throw his head back further into the mattress. His neck was taught in exposure and his jawline sharply poking out from beneath his skin that was glistening with beads of sweat, Harry feels himself teetering the edge. His back curving upward as the intensity in his stomach builds–ready to burst at any moment. Few words far in between grunty muttered in a hot breath–his mind still not capable of any thoughts. 

His fingers gripping tighter at the roots of his partner’s hair, holding onto the edge of something before he plows into his orgasm. He can’t hold back for much longer as he can feel his tip graze the back of their throat, completely devouring him over and over again. A blunt force as they swallow him wholly. Harry wants to shout out through his gritted teeth, to lose himself completely. 

The tension in his belly bursts. The shock of his organs rides through him. Through gritted words and moans, he contorts his body in pleasure and release. His load hitting the back of his partner’s throat in warm spurts. The slick friction around Harry’s length slows down, his body collapses back down into the mattress–the release from the built tension sends him into a euphoric high. 

Staring up at the ceiling, Harry watches the fan turn. It’s buzzing sound brings reality into perspective. His hand still wrapped around himself covered in his own warmth, he relays the fantasy in his head and how real it felt in those minutes. His partner, now just as gone as the lingering moment, was still imprinted on his body and the control they had on him–leaving him to ponder at the idea of loneliness and how it demands to be acknowledged. Just enough that it creates people within the walls of our minds to satisfy us for fleeting moments of pleasure.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter: @blackbluePHAN


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